


The star above my mast.

by thingsishouldntbedoing



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everybody Lives, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsishouldntbedoing/pseuds/thingsishouldntbedoing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To go from the company of thirteen Dwarves to a solitary life was no life at all... Despite the fact that it was what he had actually wanted, he supposed in hindsight that he had been happier in the hours he’d spent with Thorin’s Company than in the comfort of his library.</p><p>In the end, however, things change and so, it seems, do Hobbits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [malvinnia](http://malvinnia.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing beta and keeping me from making a big idiot of myself.
> 
> My first BagginShield fic be gentle with me.
> 
> Check me out on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/).

His mornings now started with tea and sausage and golden eggs with sides of biscuits and gravy and toast with blackberry jam, picked fresh in the summer, still sweet in the chill of the winter air -- a distinct change from the sounds of Dwarfs rousing each other with shouts or the sound of blades drawn in suspicion.

Somehow he missed those sounds.

It had taken him months to be able to sleep properly again, to reacquaint himself with the soft silence of the Shire, having grown so used to the grunts and snores of sleeping Dwarves -- it had taken months of wandering the hills in the middle of the night with Sting by his side.

Gandalf had once told him that he would not be the same if he returned; and when he walked onto his front porch on that morning he felt, indeed, that he had changed. Though he supposed he felt that way near every morning now.

It had been a year, a miserable and lonely year, since he'd seen his friends. They had written of little beyond their plans to rebuild Erebor and reunite the Seven Families... Though Bilbo knew there were now only six.

He sighed, his heart heavy each time he thought of Thorin, and pushed the thoughts away -- finding he had quite lost his appetite for the delicious breakfast before him.

To go from the company of thirteen Dwarves to a solitary life was no life at all... Despite the fact that it was what he had actually wanted, he supposed in hindsight that he had been happier in the hours he’d spent with Thorin’s Company than in the comfort of his library.

In the end, however, things change and so, it seems, do Hobbits.

 

* * *

   

When the letter came he nearly couldn’t believe it, running his fingers over the pressed runes and the corresponding translation in the Common Tongue, written in Balin’s neat handwriting, and hastily scrawled a message in return.

He sat, his knees having given out, and landed heavily on the chair as he read the letter again. He knew he should write a more proper letter, that he should agree with a neatly printed answer, but he continued staring at his response -- the writing tilted by the shaking hand that had held his pen.

The note below, written specifically for him, said only a few words -- words that had his heart beating wildly in his chest.

 _We will be sending an escort to meet you in Bree._ - _Balin_

An escort meant that they were serious.

He stifled the noise that threatened to escape with a handkerchief, staggering out of his chair with a slight feeling of nausea in his throat.

“I haven’t packed!” He cried aloud, as if that might spur him on. “I need to send the letter!” He dove back to his desk and wrote, just as messily, the address the answer was to be returned to.

He spent the rest of the morning making arrangements, running between friends’ houses and giving keys to the proper people -- after the last time he wasn’t taking any chances with the Sackville-Bagginses. Losing one spoon was enough, _thank you very much_!  
  
“Where are you off to this time, Mister Baggins?” The Gaffer asked, squinting at the piece of mail in his hand.  
  
“To Bree, and then on a bit of an adventure.”  
  
“Well alright, we’ll be sure to take care of your garden,” Bilbo’s gardener eyed him, judgement plain in his face.

Bilbo knew what they said about him, how they thought about him, but it concerned him little. It concerned him so little that when he finally started on his way through the Shire he smiled and waved to those he knew whispered about him behind his back. 

 

* * *

 

He had walked the path to Bree only a few times before and the last had been on a pony in a company of Dwarves. He supposed, however, that he could walk it once more alone. This time his steps were a little lighter and he couldn’t help but whistle a little; he was going on a long trip again and _nothing_ could dampen his mood. 

The last time he’d left on such a journey he’d been a soft and comfortable hobbit with a leash of fineries and impeccable taste… Now he had seen war and death and loss in a way he was thankful that the Shire would never witness.  
  
He had lost someone he had called _friend_. Yes, that word was much easier to say now, much easier to think, because it shielded him from the ache that had been left behind by Thorin’s death… It helped him justify the knife in his gut when he thought of all the times they had stood in counsel and the warmth in his face when he thought of the rare fall of Thorin’s smile.

Now he had a chance to see Erebor in all its glory, to see all the changes that had been made to it, and to see his old friends again in their celebration. He could finally lay eyes on the beauty of a city that Thorin had spoken of so _highly_. Not to mention that he hoped to stop in Rivendell and see Elrond again... and perhaps catch a glimpse of Gandalf as well.  
  
 _Gandalf_. It might be the wizard waiting for him at the tavern in Bree.  
  
It was entirely possible, he supposed, and he nearly skipped at the thought, laughing aloud at himself. After all that they had been through, after all the treachery and mistakes and loss, he still felt joy in his heart at the thought of seeing Gandalf and the Dwarves again…  
  
Come to think of it… why was he so excited to leave? He stopped and turned to look over his shoulder at the edge of the Shire behind him, searching the rolling hills and deep greens for answers. Maybe it was because _here_ he felt as far away from the danger of the wilds as possible… because on the road was where he had grown close to them… because feeling the paths of the world beneath his feet made him feel closer to Thorin than any worn map or tattered cloak.

_It’s been a year and I still can’t get him out of my head._

He started his walk again, joy fading under the weight of his heart, never stopping until he had reached Bree and passed through the doors. He remembered that once he had passed into a city of Men and found them dirty and grey… and wanting. Thorin had told him it was just how Men were, that they were naturally filthy creatures, though they were often either very cruel or very kind, and Bilbo couldn’t say he had been _wrong_.

Here he was not met with as many strange looks as he’d been given in Laketown; here they saw Hobbits come and go and called them _Little Folk_ and celebrated their weed and ale… He cherished that.  
  
“Master Baggins! Haven’t seen you ‘round these parts for a fair few months,” the innkeep gave him a toothy smile and Bilbo offered a weak grin in return. “We’ve got a room all prepared for you,” he slid the key over the table towards him. “Your friend is in there waiting.”  
  
“My friend?” Bilbo’s face lit up. “Well then I shall not keep them waiting.” He curled his fingers around the heavy key and started off towards the Hobbit rooms, not waiting to converse.

 _Could it be Dwalin? Certainly they wouldn’t send one of the Company. Balin would never venture this far again… Dori or Nori perhaps?_ He nearly dropped the key in his bluster, fumbling it in quaking hands. _Get a hold of yourself, Bilbo_. He had faced down Smaug and Azog and entire armies of Goblins and Orcs, yet here he was shaking like a tween at the thought of seeing an old friend again.

 _Perhaps I should have something prepared?_ He thought to himself, chuckling. _Some scolding for not coming to my door to greet me._ He waggled his finger at the air, clucking his tongue, curling his fingers around the knob. _I will tell them off. Making me walk all this way on my own. I will_ \--

The door was pulled open sharply and his thoughts faltered.  
  
“You should know that I expected you to come to my door to get me. I thought I said that tea was at _four_ and you lot should…” The words fell off his lips as he tilted his head up to look into the face of the person before him.  
  
“I wasn’t made aware of such a statement.”  
  
There was a touch of amusement to the familiar rumble of his voice and it left Bilbo breathless.

“Thorin,” the name breached his mouth as a sob and he fell back against the door frame, legs weak beneath him.  
  
“You seem surprised,” Thorin’s eyes were still as blue as he remembered, a color that he was certain Dwarves would have coveted had it been the blue of a precious gem.  
  
“I-I saw you this… this is a dream…” he tried to wake himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re dead I… I saw you die…”  
  
A warm, rough hand slid against his face and he leaned into it with a soft sound, reaching up to curl his hands around the vambrace on his wrist and hold tightly.  
  
“Please don’t let this be a dream…” he whispered.  
  
“Open your eyes Master Baggins,” Thorin’s voice was a growl that Bilbo felt against his very bones. “This is no dream.”  
  
He looked back into the face in front of him once more: still framed with a silver-streaked mane that curled and clung to the leathers at his shoulders, still covered in a neatly trimmed beard, still bearing a long scar above his brow that Bilbo had once seen gaping and bleeding -- and he was the most beautiful thing Bilbo had ever seen.  
  
He couldn’t form words, throwing his arms around Thorin with as much strength as he could manage, forcing the most wonderful sound from the Dwarf’s mouth -- a laugh, bright and clear, that pulled at his heart strings and forced fat tears out of his eyes.  
  
“You fool! You daft old Dwarf! I didn’t-- you didn’t--” he wanted to pound his fists against the King’s broad chest and yell until his voice was hoarse, held in place by the warmth of Thorin’s arms around him and the leaden weight of his legs. “Confusticate you and your heirs.” He pressed his face against the Dwarf’s mail and tried to steady himself.  
  
“Bilbo…” his given name rumbled beneath his ear and he sighed shakily.  
  
“You’re horrible! Simply horrid! This is a _miserable_ joke you’ve played on me,” he stamped his foot and earned another laugh from Thorin. He didn’t remember the Dwarf’s laughter to be so easily drawn, nor so warm to his heart.  
  
“Twas no joke! He nearly died!”

Bilbo became suddenly quite aware of the world, drawing away from Thorin to look around his broad frame.  
  
“Kíli!” He cried his name and met the Dwarf prince halfway across the room. Kíli abruptly lifted Bilbo off his feet and spun him around. “Where’s your brother?” He asked breathlessly, feet back on the ground.  
  
“Fíli is waiting for us in Erebor. He will never take a long journey such as this again,” Thorin’s voice was somber, weighing heavily in the room.  
  
“He broke his back in the fall… he is walking, but…” Kíli looked to his uncle and Bilbo turned as well.  
  
“He will never be the same,” Dwalin’s voice entered the conversation. “But he’s a strong lad.”  
  
“Dwalin!” Bilbo turned and clasped the warrior’s hand in familiarity, earning a nod of respect and affection. He couldn’t help the way the King drew his eyes once more, standing with his hand on the hilt of his sword, shoulders and back straight as a rod. He needed no crown to assert his nobility, a fact Bilbo had always found admirable.

“The letter didn’t say what this was… all about…” Bilbo murmured.  
  
“And yet you came anyway?” Thorin said with amusement.  
  
“Well, I…” 

He couldn’t admit that the thought of returning to the Dwarves and seeing their faces again would have brought him some small comfort -- might have softened the ache he’d borne in his heart for Thorin’s death.  
  
“Maybe I thought it was time for another adventure?” He offered smartly, starting to recover from his shock.  
  
“And if we take you into the jaws of death and fiery peril again?” Dwalin said gruffly.  
  
“Who else would get you _out_ of it?” Bilbo’s nerve hardened under Kíli’s laugh. “ _Well?_ ”  
  
The remainder of the evening passed in conversation: talk of Erebor and its beauty restored, of Dale and Lake-town, and of old fights and older songs. He found himself, as usual, lost in the Dwarven tales and chants, rarely taking his eyes off Thorin’s face.

 

* * *

 

“Master Baggins?” A strong hand roused him from sleep, shaking him into consciousness.  
  
“What?” He woke to sapphire eyes and the scent of leather and steel.  
  
“You fell asleep in front of the fire,” Thorin helped him to his feet.  
  
“You’re still here,” he said dumbly.  
  
“Did you think I would vanish?” Bilbo let Thorin  pull him to the beds, sitting on the offered edge.  
  
“Why did you come all this way? You should be under the mountain.”  
  
“I do not have to answer to you,” Thorin answered levelly.  
  
After months in close contact, after learning every quirk and subtle change in tone on the voice of the Dwarven king, he knew he was being teased… and it filled his belly like mulled wine.  
  
“You do indeed! You were dead! I was there beside you when you passed! I was hea--” he was going to say _heartbroken_ but the word choked him and the spark of anger that had kindled in his chest was drowned with bittersweet pain.  
  
“You underestimate Dwarves far too often, Master Baggins.”  
  
His tone was too sly for Bilbo’s liking, too familiar after all their time apart, but he couldn’t stop the smile that slid easily onto his face.  
  
“Why did you come?” He asked more softly, reaching out to touch one of the braids in Thorin’s hair. There were more than he remembered, bound with blue steel and small golden rings, but he wasn’t allowed to marvel for much longer before the Dwarf caught his hand and pulled it away.  
  
“I think you need rest. We can discuss the _whys_ and _hows_ in the morning,” Thorin seemed bemused by him.

“I asked you a question, Thorin Oakenshield, and I won’t be denied an answer,” he rallied himself, trying to clear the fog of sleep from his mind.  
  
“You have become terribly demanding.”

“And _you_ haven’t changed at all,” Bilbo wrinkled his nose.  
  
“I am much older than you, very set in my ways.”  
  
He wasn’t sure how he felt about the easy twinkle in the Dwarf’s eyes, eyes that had been so often brooding and serious when they had met, nor how he felt about _this_ Thorin in general other than the way his heart beat a little faster and his cheeks grew hot. Here he was, unburdened and -- dare he say it -- _happy_ with the curl of a smile in the corner of his mouth, and the Hobbit was struggling to understand him.

Perhaps he’d said Thorin hadn’t changed, but if Hobbits could -- why couldn’t Dwarves?

“You’re staring, Master Burglar,” Thorin’s voice shattered his thoughts again. 

“I-I am not!” He shook his fist as if in defiance of such an accusation. “You’re just too close to me!” The flicker of blue over his face made him swallow and Thorin drew away.  
  
“Get some rest. You’ll need it.”  
  
“ _You are still avoiding my questions!_ ” Bilbo’s voice nearly roused the other Dwarves and he glanced to see Kíli shift in his sleep, relief filling him when the prince remained in his dreams.  
  
“Why must you know so badly?”  
  
“ _Spare me_ from the stubbornness of Dwarves!” Bilbo swore. “What is the King Under the Mountain doing in _Bree_? Why is the King Under the Mountain not _dead_?”  
  
“You _want_ me to be dead?”  
  
“I spent all this time getting over you -- your death. All this time recovering from your death,” he corrected hastily, “yet here you are before me, as if none of it had happened.”  
  
He was almost glad Thorin appeared scolded, feeling a spike of pride at the flex of the King’s jaw and the way his eyes narrowed in irritation, but Bilbo’s resolve weakened under the softening of the dwarf’s features.

“I was in recovery for many months. They weren’t certain I would survive. I suppose they thought it best to keep it from you, to allow you to mourn in your own way.”  
  
“If I had known I--”  
  
“You what? You would have stayed? What would you have done? I was nearly dead and your home is where you belong… not in Erebor clinging to some fragment of hope.”

“I would have stayed for you! There were so many things that we… things I should have…” he faltered again at a grunt from Dwalin.  
  
“What’re you doin’ awake?” The warrior said with a threat on his tongue. “We’re leaving at first light.”  
  
Thorin lingered for only a moment longer, looking as if he wanted to say more, but under Dwalin’s gaze he could do nothing but turn and walk to the bed beside his nephew’s, leaving Bilbo’s heart racing in his throat and a strangely empty feeling in his chest.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A deathbed confession does not count as good terms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas y'all.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my beta [malvinnia](http://malvinnia.tumblr.com/) for keeping me sane.
> 
> Check me out on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu).

Bilbo was awoken by the grey light of dawn and the cacophonous snores of Dwalin, the rather disconcerting combination allaying his fears that, yet again, the night had been a dream. He stood and quietly padded to the washroom, splashing cool water over his face to ease the waking process.

All he could remember before he’d fallen asleep was the closeness of Thorin’s face and the scent of leathers and metal sharp in his nostrils, falling away to the subtler notes of raw earth and clean soap… Things that had persisted in his dreams. Dreams of sapphire eyes and long dark hair and his name on the Dwarf king’s lips stirred his heart and settled, hot and tight, in his belly.  
  
“Morning,” a rough voice stroked up his spine like chilled fingers and he turned on his heel to find a sleep-worn Thorin leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. Bilbo had rarely seen him without his armor, not that the king needed plate to be intimidating, and his gaze lingered on the shape of the chest beneath the draped fabric of his tunic.

“M-Morning, sorry, I didn’t mean to take so much time in here,” he drummed his fingers on the washbowl nervously.  
  
“You were in here only a moment,” Thorin’s early morning scowl flickered and softened into amusement.  
  
“Right you are,” he inched his way around the sink, eyes sinking to the ground. “Thought I might have lost track of time…”  
  
“Is something the matter, Master Baggins?”  
  
“I was just startled, is all. I wasn’t aware Dwarves could move quietly in a silent room.”  
  
“You were staring at the washbowl so intently I thought you might have been trying to shatter it with sheer willpower.”

Bilbo cracked a smile at that, relaxing a little, “Perhaps I was. Hobbits are capable of many things.”  
  
“You’d be better off beating your head against it.”  
  
“You keep _insisting_ that I am stubborn.”  
  
“Master Baggins, if you are--”  
  
“Bilbo.”  
  
“Pardon?” Thorin seemed genuinely surprised.  
  
“You… know you can call me Bilbo, yes? I-In fact I rather prefer people to call me that. All this Master Baggins business is rather unsettling.”  
  
He wasn’t sure _why_ Thorin laughed, but he wasn’t going to try and understand it. He ran his fingers over the thin edges of his hanging suspenders in a gesture of frustration. The sound of it set his pulse to racing, face warm at the thought of sharing, what seemed to him, a private moment that only a few hours before he had thought impossible.  
  
“What’s funny?” Kíli slurred, slumping against his uncle in a show of familiarity. “Master Baggins!” The easy smile reminded Bilbo _desperately_ of Thorin and joy spilled into his heart that they were both still alive.  
  
“I was just saying that… oh _bugger it_ ,” he waved his hand at them.

This new version of Thorin was unsettling, if anything else was, because he was quick to laugh and slow to temper -- quite unlike the Thorin he had known.

 

* * *

 

The last time he had left the Shire on a pony he had ended up in more dangerous situations than he had ever expected… Now he was heading for a much smoother passage. This time the three Dwarves around him spoke amongst each other -- three warriors that had grown together and fought together and nearly died together -- and to _him_ as if he was their equal. This time the hours passed quickly, and before he knew it they had stopped for the night, making camp and sitting around the fire to eat.

Bilbo, on the other hand, wandered a ways and looked out over the hillocks and rocky walls of the mountains before them… feeling strangely at home with his feet in the soft grass and the ache in his back from riding. He heard someone approach, turning to find Kíli walking towards him.  
  
“Here I thought you would have grown fat on your delicious cooking,” the prince pinched his waist and Bilbo made a most unsightly sound in response.  
  
“I’m working on it!” He protested, as if that made a difference, swatting the Dwarf’s hand away.  
  
“Kind of feels like last time, doesn’t it?” Kíli said after a moment of quiet. “I mean… without everybody else.”  
  
“You miss your brother?”  
  
“Yes. He… Thorin thought he would slow us down and he is… probably right, but…” Kíli shrugged. “I wanted to come out here to get you.”  
  
“I’m glad you did, Kíli,” Bilbo smiled faintly.  
  
“Did Uncle ever tell you why we came?”  
  
“No, he… didn’t seem to want to… I’m assuming it has something to do with a possessive dragon and a legendary treasure?”  
  
Kíli laughed, “You would think that, wouldn’t you? Though I suppose you are _not_ far off.”  
  
Bilbo’s brows wrinkled, eyes narrowed at the Dwarf prince, and he had lifted a finger to accompany his speech when Thorin’s bark of his name had Kíli running to his uncle.

 _Not far off?_ He frowned, folding his arms over his chest and huffing, certainly the prince had been _joking_.  
  
“Are we going to find another _dragon_?” Bilbo asked almost incredulously when he spotted Thorin.  
  
“You should go get some -- dragon?” He echoed. “Why on earth would we seek _another_ dragon?”  
  
“That’s what I thought, but Kíli…” He waved his hand after the prince. “I… am putting the cart before the horse…”

“If I intended to take you to face a dragon again, I promise I would warn you,” Thorin stopped by his side and looked out over the rocky plains.  
  
“Will you tell me now what all this is about?” Bilbo asked softly. “The message said there was to be a celebration and I was invited.”  
  
“You are an honored guest.”  
  
“So of course the King himself came to retrieve me.”  
  
“You’re very hung up on _King_ aren’t you? I’m here because I want to be here. As I said: a King is free to do as he pleases... so long as it doesn’t endanger his people.”  
  
“And it pleased you to come fetch me for a secret party?” Bilbo couldn’t stop the sly smile.  
  
“It pleased me to see you again.”  
  
His heart faltered at those words and he had to fight the surprised noise that rose from his chest by clearing his throat, looking down at his feet.

“I said I did not want us to part on bad terms.”  
  
“And we didn’t, Thorin,” he finally lifted his eyes to the king’s face. “We parted on… terms…” he trailed off. “Regardless, we were fine...” he gave a sigh of frustration. “Why do you want to talk _now,_ but not before?” Bilbo asked stubbornly, changing the subject to avoid the knife in his heart. “Are you going to answer _my_ questions now?”  
  
“I answered one of them, I should think,” Thorin settled his feet and folded his hands behind his back.

“Barely! _It pleased me_ doesn’t really tell me--” he kicked the grass at his feet. “You don’t-- we--”  
  
When he looked back back Thorin was watching him with a strange sort of sadness in his features, the faintest glimmer of regret softening his eyes.  
  
Oh, there was that knife to the heart.

“Why are you alive?” He asked again. “I thought it was done. I thought all this was over! I thought that was… that we had… I went home and did like you said but all I could do was think about--” he pressed a fist to his mouth and forced a breath, exhaling the air trapped in the shallows of his lungs.

 _Stop looking at me like that._ He couldn’t take his eyes away for long, wishing desperately for an Orc pack to come and mow them all down before he said something irresponsibly stupid.

“A deathbed confession does not count as good terms.”  
  
“It was good enough! Good enough for me to go home and try to go back to normal! It was enough to -- I need to sit down…” he slumped into the grass, rubbing his face with his hands. “I don’t even know what to say to you. I threw out all the words I’d let belong to you months ago.”

Thorin stood beside him, as still and as quiet as the mountain he ruled under, until Bilbo had stopped grinding his palms into his burning eyes and sniffed. The Hobbit propped his elbows onto his knees, and looked out over the starlight soaked plains in their muted beauty -- wondering if Thorin saw the same world he did, if perhaps their worldviews had drawn closer to each other?

“I asked for your pardon as I was dying. I wanted to hear your forgiveness… It was selfish and foolish, but a dying request I knew you couldn’t ignore. I never imagined I would survive and this would come to pass.”  
  
“My _pardon_?” Bilbo scoffed. “Sounds as if you expected me to pass judgement on you.”  
  
“I thought that, if after all that I had done to you, you could still forgive me…”

“What did you do to me? Coaxed me into an adventure I hesitated to join, threw me into Goblin caves, nearly died and forced me to protect you from Azog, left me to free you from a bunch of drunken Wood Elves, oh _yes_ \-- tossed me feet first into a mountain of gold with a dragon beneath it! I also witnessed a massive battle between Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Orcs and watched you die in my arms helplessly. I mean how on earth could anyone _forgive you_ for such an adventure?”

Thorin seemed unsettled, shifting his weight and sitting down beside him with a heavy sigh.  
  
“You do not need my forgiveness. Everything that happened wasn’t your fault. I mean it sort of was… You are _stubborn_ , even for a Dwarf, and you hardly ever listened to my counsel even when you asked for it… But you have a kind heart, Thorin Oakenshield, and I always knew that man was in there somewhere.”  
  
Silence descended between them -- a reverent and stolid quiet that eased Bilbo’s fraying nerves and allowed his mind to still for a moment. He needed more time to put his thoughts back together, to adjust to this new reality and old feelings that he thought he’d buried with the remnants of his travels. He needed to face the emotions he’d wished away on his long walks through the Shire.  
  
“I am sorry,” Thorin said finally, voice too-loud in the night.  
  
“I told you… you don’t need to be sorry. I’m glad to have been with you.” Bilbo stood up and offered him a hand.  
  
Thorin looked at his hand a moment, then up at him before reaching out to take it, “I am quite a bit heavier than you.”  
  
“Do you want a hand up or not?” Bilbo leaned with all his weight and tried to pull the Dwarf up. “Come now, this isn’t funny,” he sunk his feet into the dirt and pulled again with all his might and moved the King only slightly. “What are you made of?” He gave up, sighing heavily.  
  
He looked up to find a playful light in Thorin’s eyes, lips thinning to hold back a smile.  
  
“I’m taking back my forgiveness.”  
  
“I thought you said I didn’t need to ask for your forgiveness?”  
  
“Well now you do. I’ve taken it back.”  
  
“You can’t do that.”  
  
“Why not? You’re not _my_ king!”  
  
“All this because I’m too heavy for you to lift?”  
  
“You’re not even trying, you lump of lead!” With a flex of his arm Thorin had him staggering and perilously close to hitting the ground, had Thorin not caught Bilbo’s shoulder to steady him.  
  
“I’ll cooperate if you settle down,” Thorin said softly.

Bilbo told himself that if he survived this moment he would write novels about Thorin Oakenshield’s eyes.  
  
“You haven’t rested since you walked in through the door in Bree.”  
  
“I’ve slept!”  
  
“But did you rest?”  
  
“Thorin…” he sighed and relented, leaning forward just slightly. “You’ll forgive me if I’ve been in shock.”  
  
“You have adjusted to far worse things much more quickly than this.”  
  
“Well, the bad things you know are going to end… But the good things--” he stopped, searching Thorin’s too-close face for a moment, pulse racing in his throat. “I -- you’re right. I should go get some rest…” he pulled away so quickly he nearly fell backwards down the hill, catching himself despite Thorin’s move to stand and stop him. “I’m very tired… very tired indeed.” He juggled his footing for a moment. “Uh… good night…” he gave a sharp wave of his hand and started off for the camp, trying to calm his pounding heart.

 

* * *

 

Thorin remained friendly through the rest of the trip, but stayed back from Bilbo as much as he could. He knew the Hobbit was still reeling, shaken by his apparent resurrection, and there was little more he could do besides wait. Needless to say _he_ had been more than a little surprised at the embrace Bilbo had bestowed upon him in the Prancing Pony... but it had been good to feel Bilbo's slight weight in his arms and against his chest.

In hindsight,perhaps the surprise was a bit of a mistake, but the look on Bilbo's face had been one he was glad he hadn't missed: a sudden and blank shock that melted into affection and a shaking bottom lip he barely caught a glimpse of before Bilbo had thrust his face against his sternum. Bilbo had thought, as Thorin had, that they would never again meet in this life.

He smiled to himself as they rode nearer to Erebor, enjoying the quiet company of his kin and friend, but kept an ever watchful eye on Bilbo. He had noticed, of late, that the Hobbit had taken to staring at him when he was certain Thorin wasn't looking -- as if he was seeing a ghost... Which, upon further consideration, was not an incorrect appraisal of the situation.

Sometimes, though he must have been imagining it, he might have sworn to have seen a smoldering light like the dying coals of a forge in the darks of his friend's eyes. A light he had seen burn higher in earlier times. 

“Snow!” He sat up from his bedroll when he heard Bilbo’s awed voice. “It’s snowing!” The Hobbit laughed quietly to himself, the smoke from his pipe curling and catching on flakes as they fell. “I should like to paint a picture of it…” Thorin smiled. He liked when Bilbo talked to himself, he wasn’t entirely sure why, but there was something oddly gentle about the Hobbit’s curiosity.  
  
“The last time it snowed and we were all sleeping outside you had a fit.” The rough edges of his voice grated on his own nerves, and he wished he hadn’t slipped so easily into sleep.

“Will we reach Erebor with all this snow?” Bilbo asked. “We’re short of Dale! Might we stop to see Bard?” He turned around and Thorin’s chest tightened. The combination of the thick Dwarven cloak around his shoulders and the pink tinges to his cheeks from the cold gave him a bright and joyful look, delight in his eyes.  
  
“Why don’t we get home first and eat warm food, then we can head to Dale? I’ll take you there myself." 

Bilbo nodded in agreement, walking over to him, “Thorin! Have you ever made a snowman?” Thorin tilted his head when the Hobbit sat down on the end of his bedroll facing him, folding his legs beneath him.  
  
“I’m sure I did when I was a lad,” he watched snow catch in the curls of Bilbo’s hair, thinking how the gentle flakes almost suited him. He wasn’t going to question Bilbo’s sudden openness after several weeks of quiet contemplation; the comfort of easy conversation was enough.  
  
“How… long ago was that?” Bilbo asked.  
  
“Oh _many_ years,” Thorin felt his face soften, the pull at the corner of his mouth at such a curious question.  
  
“So how old are you, _really_?” Bibo asked again.  
  
Bilbo, in all his gentle kindness, was downright _young_ in comparison. He knew that Hobbits were not nearly as long lived, but it mattered little to him as he entered, what would likely be, his last century.  
  
“I will be one and two hundred this year,” he answered but Bilbo didn’t seem surprised.  
  
“I thought as much.”  
  
“You seem smug,” Thorin snorted as Bilbo puffed on his pipe thoughtfully.  
  
“You said you were there when Smaug came. I figured you had to be quite old.”  
  
“Does this bother you?”  
  
“What? No! Nothing about you bothers me--”  
  
His heart clenched tight in his chest, and had he been a bit younger he might have even blushed with pleasure at the sudden admittance. He reached out to silence Bilbo’s stuttering, touching his hand to the side of his face, thumbing across the soft, unbearded skin of his cheek until the Hobbit’s words fell dead on his lips.  
  
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said softly.  
  
“I’m so afraid that this is a dream,” Bilbo whispered, “or that I’m going to open my eyes in Hobbiton and you won’t be here.”  
  
“If it is a dream then it is a _good_ dream, yes?” He humored him.  
  
“But even good dreams come to an end.”  
  
Thorin didn’t stop the rumble of a laugh, but Bilbo did when the Hobbit leaned forward and bumped their foreheads together, resting there. He wasn’t sure if Bilbo had any understanding of the gesture in his culture, if the intimacy of such an act had any meaning in that of the Hobbits, but that didn’t stop the leap of his pulse or the shallowing of his breath.  
  
“Then I am surely glad this is no dream,” Thorin murmured.  
  
“As am I.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Surprised?” Bilbo asked a little breathlessly. “If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head welded to the floor I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter tho. snowball fight.
> 
> thank [malvinnia](http://malvinnia.tumblr.com/) for the fine tuning. and check me out on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/).

“A few things about you bother me,” Bilbo began the morning by saying, riding up beside the king.  
  
“Have you been worrying about this all night?” Thorin asked, amused.  
  
“I’m… Yes, perhaps…”

“Very well, what have you?”  
  
“Hail King Thorin!” A scout spotted them, lifting her hand in greeting.  
  
The snow was thick around their ponies’ legs, but the Dwarf scout still made her way to them with a bright grin on her face as if unhindered. Bilbo gave half a thought to just how hardy the Dwarves truly were to be waist deep in snow and still so cheerful.  
  
“Hail Sirdit,” Dwalin greeted in return. “How passes the day?”  
  
“Well! All is calm in Erebor and beyond.”  
  
This was quite a different entrance to the Dwarven lands than the one Bilbo had encountered before… Then again, the last time he had been to Erebor, it had been in secret and they had just escaped the threat of imprisonment in Lake-town and the clutches of the Elves of Mirkwood.

“Hail Master Baggins!” He heard his name and sound returned to his ears, drawing his attention.  
  
“Oh… quite right, yes… Good morning,” he answered with a nod.  
  
“He’s very tired,” Kíli said and the Dwarf scout smiled understandingly.  
  
“Prince Fíli awaits your arrival. Much has been done since your parting.”  
  
“Then we will make haste,” Thorin gestured and their small company started off around the mountain.  
  
“Why was she addressing me?” Bilbo asked and Thorin snorted in response.  
  
“You realize you have entered legend among the Dwarves? You were one of the fourteen members of my company, a key actor in the return of Erebor to my people… We do not forget easily.”  
  
Bilbo’s breath grew shallow again, feeling as if someone had clutched his heart and squeezed. The way Thorin’s face softened at his own words, how the King’s eyes wrinkled at the corners with pride, all of it made him weak -- and he was quite glad to be sitting on a pony.

The doors of Erebor loomed above them, restored to their glory once more, with freshly planted pines at the mouth of the valley that lead up to the great gates. He made quick comparisons: how the snow clung to the evergreens, how the stone path beneath them had been recreated with the skill of the Dwarves, how the bridge that had once been destroyed by Thorin’s own malice was now within view -- he wasn’t sure any other culture could rival the sedulousness of Dwarves.  
  
“King Thorin!” A call came from workers, pausing briefly in their work to greet their king and to marvel at his new companion.  
  
Bilbo had never _seen_ so many Dwarves. He had thought thirteen a great number, but they seemed to come from the very walls to greet them and take their ponies, all jovial and conversing with Kíli and Dwalin like old friends. He hopped off his saddle and caught the leather of Thorin’s vambrace to keep from being swept away in the hustle, earning a downward cast of a knowing smile on the king’s face.  
  
“Bilbo, move!” Kíli said in his ear, pulling him away.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Thorin!” The Dwarf king turned around, only to have a mass of snow crash against his face, sliding down into the collar of his shirt and clinging to his neat beard. “Welcome back, Uncle!” 

Bilbo struggled against a combination of horror and hysterics, biting hard on his fist to stifle giggles even as Kíli brayed, stomping his boot against the snow.  
  
“What, you want another?” The blond prince was crouched with Ori beside him, forming another snowball.  
  
“I will have your head in a snowbank before I let you throw another--” Thorin’s head jerked with another impact, thrown from behind him. “Who?”

Bilbo dusted his mittens, gesturing at Kíli beside him with a clearing of his throat and a short shake of his head.

“Not me!” Kíli protested. “Bilbo!”

Thorin considered them both for a moment, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Never!” Bilbo looked rightfully horrified.  
  
Another snowball flew through the air, this time directed at Kíli, and Bilbo dove out of the way as chaos erupted around him.  
  
Thorin made his way to his eldest nephew but paused briefly to look back at Bilbo as if to say: _You’re next_. Not an altogether comforting thought, considering the Dwarf’s penchant for revenge.  
  
Bilbo had been in his fair share of snowball fights, yet another pastime the Hobbits enjoyed as a rule, but he had never seen one amongst warriors that seemed to form ranks and alliances in moments with Thorin backed by Dwalin against Kíli and Fíli and whoever else had joined outside the great Erebor doors.

Bilbo hid behind a pine and watched the battle unfold -- until a familiar hand caught his cloak.  
  
“Did you think you could escape me?” Thorin asked, the low register of his voice like rolling thunder.  
  
Bilbo was trapped, by his own stupidity, between the thick trunk of the tree behind him and the broad form of Thorin Oakenshield.  
  
“I-I thought -- it wasn’t me! O’ most regal of Durin’s line!” He kept his voice even, looking up into the eyes he’d sworn he’d write sonnets for.  
  
“You think Kíli would have _dared_ to hit me from behind?”  
  
“I think Dwarves are capable of anything, you’ve said that before, besides it’s only snow?” He swallowed hard against the pulse in his throat, eyes fluttering against the warmth of Thorin’s breath washing over his face.  
  
“It was still a sneak attack, a speciality of _burglars_.” The smile, _oh what a smile_ , that spread over Thorin’s face at the word had Bilbo reeling, thankful for the tree behind him.  
  
“Too close,” he whispered, the sounds of the snow battle fading against the spinning in his head. Thorin always smelled clean, a vanity not many other Dwarves held dear, beneath the dull scents of leather and steel; and he could almost taste the earthen soap on his skin with the Dwarf’s face so close to his own.

 _By the Shire, he’s too close_.  
  
“Are you going to kiss me?” Bilbo asked dumbly.  
  
“Do you want me to?”  
  
“ _THORIN_!” The Dwarf king straightened up and Bilbo might have slumped to the ground were it not for the hand that pulled him upright. “Thorin, son of _Thrain_! What is going on out here?”  
  
“Dís!” Bilbo took a moment to try and register just what exactly was happening, when another Dwarf marched up to them, sodden princes at her heels. “The boys started a snowball fight and I--”  
  
“You were cornering that poor Hobbit. I know what you were doing,” the Dwarf woman scolded.  
  
Bilbo had only _heard_ of Dwarf women until this point, but they were certainly not like Hobbit women -- he would later learn that the scout he had met before was _also_ female -- nor any other woman he had seen before. He supposed, upon second glance, that her face was softer than her older brother’s and her beard smaller and finely groomed. Her long hair was braided with golden strands and jewels, hanging against the deep green velvets of her robes.  
  
“Come with me, Master Baggins,” she offered her arm to him. “I am sorry you were caught up in the mischief of my sons and brother.”  
  
“N-Not at all,” he said, trying to smooth his voice out over the trembling of his heart, adjusting his cloak where Thorin had caught it. “I’ve been caught up in far worse with them by my side, I can assure you.”  
  
“I am _certain_ ,” she guided him. “My name is Dís. Thorin’s younger sister.”  
  
“I gathered that,” he chuckled nervously. “You _can_ call me Bilbo. The Master Baggins thing seems a bit odd here.”  
  
“ _Bilbo_ it is then,” she gave an easy smile with a wide, soft mouth that reminded him little of Thorin.

  

* * *

 

He felt the need to reiterate the fact that _thirteen_ Dwarves had been a handful and that an entire city of them was more than he had bargained for. Dís led him to quarters in the royal wing, something that did not slip by him unnoticed, and helped him unpack his bags -- all the while talking about her brother with him.  
  
“We _were_ going to send for you when he woke, but he said something about letting you alone,” she huffed.  
  
“Letting me alone?” Bilbo echoed, looking around at the beautifully crafted furniture and running his fingers over the furs and silks on the bed he was apparently supposed to sleep in.

“Yes. I suppose he thought it best you didn’t know… something about letting you be in peace in the Shire… But this celebration was one that came as a surprise even to him.”  
  
“For all the weeks we’ve been on the road nobody ever _did_ tell me what we were coming here for,” Bilbo looked to her.  
  
“A celebration of a fallen enemy,” she answered. “Smaug’s demise was the end of an era of destitution for our people and now that Erebor has been returned to _much_ of its former glory, we felt it time to reopen the doors. There will be honors and awards and much feasting and drinking in the coming days -- not to mention many representatives from the other Dwarf Lords.”  
  
“And someone thought I ought to be here?”  
  
“ _Thorin_ thought you ought to be here.” She told him. “That’s why he went himself to get you, because _he_ made the decision to leave you alone and he regretted that.”  
  
Bilbo sank his fingers into his pocket and ran his thumb over the thick gold band there, thinking as he watched the fire lap at the mouth of the hearth. Thorin hadn’t wanted him to know that he was alive… out of shame? It had to have been shame. The regret and sadness he’d seen on Thorin’s face told him that much.  
  
“Bilbo?” Dís adapted much more quickly than the others. “Would you care for a hot bath before supper?”  
  
“Oh… yes! That sounds wonderful,” he sighed happily. “Nothing but icy water between here and the Shire it seems.”  
  
“Follow me,” she led him down a hallway and into a wide, finely carven room. A veritable _lake_ of steaming water opened before him, heated by Dwarven trickery he was certain. Angular spouts protruded along one wall, hewn from stone and gilded even in the muted light of a high chandelier. “Shower first in the cool waters, then you may relax in the pool.” She informed.

“Shower?” He walked towards the spouts and touched the fine handles that hung from them. “What do you mean?”  
  
“These are showers.” He wasn’t sure he liked the way her face softened, as if he were cute for having asked. “They pour water out, so you can clean yourself more easily… like a waterfall.”  
  
“A waterfall?” He couldn’t stop the horror in his voice.  
  
“Yes, pressure builds when you pull that handle and water emerges from the spout… Just pull this handle over here,” she walked to one and tugged on it.  
  
“Oh!” He jumped out of the way when a deluge poured at his feet, shocked by the cool spray. “Oh my! That’s bloody brilliant!”

She laughed, voice echoing through the hall, and Bilbo felt a mixture of embarrassment and excitement beneath his flushed cheeks. He felt… simple, somehow, as if the Dwarves found him quaint and unintelligent… Though he supposed that they did, in a way. Hobbits were not the best nor the brightest nor the most advanced -- he should have expected to be out of his league.

“A… towel?” He was worried that this might be yet another thing he needed to understand. Perhaps they had a Dwarven way to dry off as well?  
  
“One will be brought to you when you are ready to leave,” she said pleasantly. “If you leave your dirty clothes in your room tonight they will be returned to you clean.”  
  
“Oh… thank you, Dís,” he cleared his throat and she offered him another easy smile.  
  
“You are welcome,” she ruffled his hair and started for the door she had led him through.  
  
“Showers!” He huffed, twiddling with the handle for a moment. “I can handle Orcs -- I can handle _showers_.” He wasn’t sure he liked the sounds the accursed things made, but he appreciated cleanliness as much as the next Hobbit.  
  
He peeled his clothing off, relieved to wash away the weariness and grime of the road. Pausing in his movements, he reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out the thick golden ring, rolling it in his fingers for a moment, before placing it back into the pocket and folding his clothes neatly together and placing them by the pool.

 _Showering_ was wonderful. Chilly though it might have been, he felt cleaner than he had in weeks, washing his hair and scrubbing the grime from his skin until he’d turned pink from the force of it. He entertained the thought of asking them to put one in at Bag End, singing to himself as he made his way to the pool of hot water and looked down into it.  
  
“Surely it can’t be shallow…” He stuck his foot into the water curiously, finding it nearly _scorching_ , but he sank into the perfumed bath regardless, wondering if his feet might ever touch the ground. “Now this is a bath made for a _king_.” He chuckled, finally settling onto a ledge along the walls.  
  
Dwarves were a wonder to him, the more he learned about them, the less he understood, but culture was a funny thing and he wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ recover from the shock. He floated out into the water, remembering only vaguely the times he had gone swimming as a child. Hobbits were not _naturally_ drawn to water, but he supposed the Tooks had always been an odd bunch and he remembered diving into small ponds with cousins as a child. Not to mention he had been in enough rivers in the past two years to more than qualify him as a glorified dog paddler… Though he didn’t range too far from the shelf he had been sitting on.  
  
“Dwarves always have to over _do_ things. Why is a _bath_ this deep?” He sat back down, still befuddled by the depth.  
  
Before long, though, he had sunk in, until all he could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears and his thoughts racing around his head. For the first time he was completely and utterly alone, where Thorin couldn’t come bursting into his presence and Kíli couldn’t interrupt his quiet -- finally he could recover from everything that had happened in the past month.  
  
 _Did you think you could escape me?_  
  
Well if he couldn’t burst into his presence, he could at least break down the walls of Bilbo’s thoughts like a battering ram.

He wasn’t sure what to do about Thorin, much less how to handle him.

As a tween he had done his fair share of dancing and celebrating. There had been a girl he’d been sweet on, with whom he’d shared his first kiss, and there had been a time when he’d discovered that _girls_ were not the only ones worth kissing… But this was nothing like the innocent shyness and bubbling nerves he’d felt then. This was a _fire_ that burned high in his belly and threatened to devour every inch of him from the inside out, as fierce and as unrelenting as the one who caused it.  
  
He had finally stamped it out and left the last coals smoking in his heart. Thorin had been certifiably _dead_ and had passed into _legend,_ but for a legend he was certainly doing a lot of walking and talking.

A splash alerted him to the fact that he was not alone any longer and he sat upright quickly, fear in his throat.

“Excuse me, I’m--”  
  
 _You have got to be joking._

“Did you think this was _your_ bath?” His voice fell over Bilbo, smooth as silk.  
  
“What are you doing?” Bilbo was rooted to the spot, clutching the edge of the bath.  
  
“Getting into the water. Have you gone blind?”

He couldn’t decide if he wished he _had_ gone blind or if he wanted to thank the Elven gods for Thorin Oakenshield’s naked body… Not that Thorin would appreciate him thanking Elves for… well, literally anything.

Thorin dropped into the water, the hair on his chest damp from his shower, but Bilbo could still see the angry red scar where Azog’s sword had entered the King’s flesh. He was certain no hair would ever grow there again; a testament to survival... if he wanted to be poetic.

Bilbo saw other marks as well: pale and thin, curving over the width of his shoulders and over the thick muscle of his arms. He couldn’t say Thorin was _beautiful_ by any means. Beautiful was too empty a word to describe the warrior before him -- a man whose body bore the storied lines that fate painted with swift brushstrokes over his flesh. Thorin tilted his chin up, as if he knew what the Hobbit was thinking, a touch of pride to his face.

“Are you surprised?” Thorin asked, tilting his head.  
  
“Surprised?” Bilbo asked a little breathlessly. “If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head welded to the floor I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”  
  
Thorin laughed, the sound of it echoing off the cavernous walls above them and kneading at his heart.  
  
“This is _my_ washroom,” Thorin said, still grinning.  
  
“Yes, well -- most things in this mountain belong to you. That wall over there? _Yours_. The sheets on the beds? _Yours_. Every piece of gold and every jewel that emerges from the--”  
  
“You do ramble a lot,” Thorin leaned his cheek on his fist.

“I was simply trying to prove a point. By the by, how deep is this water?”  
  
“Deep enough.”

“Thorin Oakenshield! I asked you a question!” Bilbo scuttled back when the Dwarf king pushed off into the water toward him. “Heavens! Don’t you come over here!” He desperately wanted to escape, finally finding his will to move, but didn’t want to rise out of the water.

“You’re not getting away this time,” Thorin caught his elbow and held him there, the powerful fingers on his skin gentle, something he wasn’t entirely aware Thorin could be.  
  
When he settled his gaze on the face of the king he found something possessive shining in the depths of Thorin’s eyes, a light that was focused on _him_ this time, instead of gold or gems, and the aforementioned fire billowed up into his face.  
  
“Why are you doing this?” Bilbo asked, clutching the edge of the seat he sat on.  
  
“Am I not allowed to be in my own bath?”  
  
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he lifted his hand up and curled his fingers around a braid that hung from Thorin’s temple. “Confound you.”  
  
“The answer to your question is _yes,_ ” Bilbo could almost feel the vibrations of Thorin’s voice this time.  
  
“How deep the water is?” He whispered, weakly placing a hand on Thorin’s shoulder as if to keep him back.

The bump of Thorin’s forehead against his was enough to make him blush, and he tugged the braid in his hand bashfully. There was some meaning to this gentle practice that he was uncertain of.

“Thorin, I--”   
  
He never did have the chance to finish his sentence before a howl broke the air, immediately followed by what seemed to Bilbo to be a tidal wave that swept them both under.

Bilbo emerged, hoisted above the water by Thorin’s grip on his arm, spluttering and gasping for air.   
  
“Uncle!” Kíli grinned, shaking his head like a dog.   
  
“Kíli!” Thorin reached for him, slinging an arm around his neck and dragging him under the water.  
  
“No! Uncle! Please!” He cried each time the king allowed his head above water.  
  
“I’m sorry! I tried!” Fíli laughed, entering from a hallway Bilbo hadn’t noticed before. He was leaning on the beautiful crutch Bilbo had seen by his side at the gates, as finely crafted as everything else the Dwarves made.   
  
“Don’t hurt him!” Bilbo finally seemed to gather his wits, but when Kíli emerged, sodden and laughing, his fear eased in his chest.   
  
“Mother told us to come make sure you hadn’t drowned!” Kíli informed them, pushing his mane back from his face. “I didn’t know you were here, Master Baggins, my apologies!”  
  
“No, it’s fine,” he mumbled somewhat shyly.  
  
Now not only was he naked in a bath with _Thorin_ , but also naked in a bath with several more Dwarves.

_Why is it always me?_

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delicate was not the word Bilbo would have chosen. He might have selected something along the lines of _dangerous_ or _foolhardy_ or maybe even _incredibly stupid_.

Bilbo was more than a little bewildered, still dripping from Kíli’s assault, and turned to watch Fíli approach with the beautiful golden crutch he had seen before braced under his arm. In this light, and this close, he could see the intricate detailings - fit for a prince - and the soft, thick leather his hand was coiled around.

He then turned his attention to how the fall had ruptured Fíli’s walk, watching the Prince shift his weight carefully. Bilbo wondered, examining the leg Fíli favored, if perhaps there was something that could be done to help - or if Thorin had even considered that there might be an option. He knew, perhaps better than anyone else, how proud and stubborn Dwarves were - but that streak seemed a mile wide in the blood of Thorin’s kin.

“Ma says you need to hurry up,” Kíli said as he floated away before his uncle could grab him again.  
  
“Dís does not tell me what to do,” Thorin growled and moved to the opposite edge of the bath. Bilbo was forced to jerk his head to the side and close his eyes when the King rose from the water, wrinkling his face in protest of how casual these people were about nudity. “Come here, Fíli,” his voice softened in kindness and Bilbo’s heart clenched.

Out of sheer curiosity he cracked an eye, and tried very hard to focus on the fact that Thorin was aiding his nephew’s descent into the water and certainly _not_ the way the muscles of his back flexed and pulled with the motion.  
  
 _I’ve been around Dwarves too long. That must be it._  
  
He shut his eyes again before the others noticed, heart racing in his chest.  
  
“Are you feeling alright?” Kíli asked, voice verging into laughter.  
  
“I’m feeling... fine. I am feeling fine.” He wagged his finger at the Dwarf prince and made a soft whining sound. “Fine. Yes.”

“Maybe you should get out?” Kíli suggested and hopped up out of the pool to walk to the rack of towels, water streaming off his hair. “I’ll get you a towel.”  
  
“ _Dwarves_ ,” Bilbo swore under his breath. “I am _fine!_ I said I was fine _, right?_ ”  
  
“Well yes, but…”  
  
Bilbo found Thorin’s eyes on him and huffed, folding his arms over his chest. He didn’t appreciate the glitter of amusement or the way Thorin’s lips had thinned to fight a smile.  
  
“Would you all _please_ not worry about me?” Bilbo asked, looking away when Kíli dropped back into the pool.  
  
“Alright,” Kíli looked scolded, shrinking under the water to blow bubbles. “Fíli!” He dove towards his brother - well, that didn’t last long.  
  
Bilbo chuckled, hoping that the Dwarves would now stay on their side of the bath and he could slip out unnoticed… Else he might faint from the horrible combination of embarrassment and heat.

He wasn’t sure how he felt, however, when he realized Thorin’s gaze had never left. Bilbo turned away, clearing his throat uncomfortably. All he wanted to do was get out of the water without the Dwarves seeing him; he’d been made a fool once already this evening.

“Do you need help?” Thorin asked.  
  
“No, perhaps you could _kindly_ mind your own business,” Bilbo said curtly.  
  
“I am,” he answered.  
  
“Mind your own business by looking somewhere else.” He slowly grew more frustrated.

He was of an entirely different race, he would never be broad and powerful or firm like carved stone, but knowing this didn’t make him feel any less uncomfortable with the fact that he was _also_ not quite comfortable in his own skin. A year of running for his life and survival had left him a shadow of his former self, and the other Hobbits had been sure to make him aware of it through their obvious concern… But the nasty combination of too-thin and too-soft had him rooted to the spot.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Thorin finally had the good sense to look away, slapping the back of Kili’s head to distract him.

Cultural differences be damned.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was a raucous affair, not that Bilbo wasn’t expecting it, with roasted meat off the bone and Dwarven ale and whiskey - one of which Bilbo was only slightly hesitant to try.  
  
“You’re quiet,” Dís said and Bilbo looked up from his plate, gesturing to his mouth to indicate it was full.  
  
“It is difficult to be anything _but_ in this crowd,” he smiled fondly once he was done with chewing. “Even yelling seems but a whisper.” He looked to find Dís’ sons in the heat of, what appeared to be, a drinking game.

“It’s a race,” Dis explained, smiling at his furrowed brows.  
  
“Whoever drinks the most?”  
  
“Whoever passes out first,” Dís cackled. “It is _always_ Fíli. Kíli has never let him forget.” 

“Sounds… Dwarvish,” Bilbo watched them for a moment longer. “Hobbits enjoy drinking quite a bit as well, but there is _rarely_ any contest for who can drink the _most_. We have a very… Well, I’ll just say that Hobbits hold their liquor better than any other race I’ve seen.”  
  
“Hey!” Dwalin caught their attention from the end of the table. “What’d you say?”  
  
“I said Hobbits hold their liquor well,” Bilbo answered calmly, immediately regretting his words when Dwalin looked back at Thorin.  
  
“You wanna prove tha’?” Dwalin challenged.  
  
“Do I?” Bilbo echoed, rolling the words on his tongue. “Well, I…” He glanced at the whiskey the Dwarves had been drinking, then at the ale in front of him that warmed his nerves and stoked a prideful sort of fire in his belly. “Yes.”  
  
It would be good, for once, to see the Dwarves’ smug faces wiped clean.

“Who should we pit you against?” Bofur joined the conversation.  
  
“Thorin.”  
  
“What!?” Dwalin asked incredulously.

“I want to challenge _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo reiterated. He had noticed the way the King had smirked at his words, how _certain_ Thorin was of Dwarven superiority. 

“You want to challenge _me_?”

Bilbo had seen that condescending smirk before, had seen the wicked curl of his lips around the word _grocer_ , and had _felt_ the indignation flood through him…

“Afraid you might lose, O’ Mighty Oakenshield?” Bilbo jabbed at him - brave with the ale strengthening his nerves.

“I never lose.”  
  
The drop in Thorin’s register had Bilbo’s heart racing and he rose from his seat to cheers from the rest of the Company.

“You know, I do remember you losing once or twice in your life,” Balin offered in Bilbo’s favor.  
  
“Fine! If you all so insist,” Thorin waved his hand and Kíli shoved his brother down the bench happily. “Sit.” He reconsidered his demand, “ _Please._ ”  
  
Bilbo did as requested, smiling when Kíli clapped him on the shoulder and set down a glass in front of him. 

If Kíli wouldn't have started talking Bilbo might have marveled at the craftsmanship of the crystal tumbler, turning it in his fingers and watching the light bounce off the edges.

“The rules are to drink as much as you can-”  
  
“Without passing out, yes,thank you Kíli,” Bilbo nodded, patting his hand. “Are you prepared, Your Magnificence?”

“I don’t think I like your tone, Master Burglar,” Thorin tilted his chin up and Bilbo shrugged his shoulders.

This would be satisfying, especially after Thorin’s approach in the washroom and his _breathtaking_ teasing. First Bilbo would put him in his place, then he would begin a new plan of attack - giving Thorin Oakenshield a taste of his own medicine.

“And - GO!” Kíli gave the mark and Bilbo downed his first mug of amber liquid, feeling the burn of the whiskey on his tongue and in his throat. 

The aftertaste was like mulled wine: a swell of cinnamon and cardamom and _honey_ with a distinctly earthen scent that lingered in his nostrils long after he’d finished drinking. _This_ was something he could take back to the Shire and drink happily for the rest of his life.

The next one went down _smooth_ and he almost shivered.

The chatter between the Dwarves had begun to rise again and Bilbo watched money change hands, eyes flicking to Thorin over his mug. The Dwarf King was watching him with what could only be described as thinly veiled desire, thickened by the alcohol they were currently consuming, tempered only by the surrounding bodies.

“Keeping up?” Thorin’s voice scraped against his nerves and an uncomfortable tension coiled around his lungs. 

“Are you?” Bilbo challenged, tossing back another swallow - promising himself that he _would_ sip and savor _next time._

Thorin’s laughter, softened by the heady drink and companionship, was rich and full and _warm_ like the bodies of the wines Bilbo favored - and almost as intoxicating.

Not that he was really thinking about wine at this moment - losing count of his drinks when his thoughts became sluggish and devious, but he was _still_ doing better than Thorin - who, for all his swagger, was fading quickly into a drunken daze.  
  
“C’mon Thorin!” Dwalin tried to rouse him, but Thorin shoved him away, fixing Bilbo with the best glare he could manage despite the sloppy scowl on his lips.  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” but his lips collided with _fine_ and it hung too long in his mouth, sliding out too slow. _Fffffine._  
  
Bilbo’s world was spinning when the Dwarf King’s head finally hit the table amidst cheers and sounds of exchanging money, but he was still conscious - which was all that mattered in the game. He was heralded, boasted over, and jostled - and finally requested to be escorted back to his rooms. He was, however, thwarted - too flattered by their requests to stay.

He lingered, sipping ale he could barely taste, until Thorin had recovered somewhat, the Dwarf King righting himself with an ungainly shove against the tabletop that shifted the entire table. The sudden movement startled everyone, and drew a drunken laugh from Bilbo's own lips.

"No, I'm - I can't stay," he managed. "Lest my honor be tarnished further.” Thorin, ever the noble, excused himself to the best of his ability, waving off the playful jeers.

"I'll come with you," finally having an excuse to peel himself away from the company, Bilbo took his chance to escape. "I don't know my way."

He found himself nearly giggling when Thorin leaned on him a little unsteadily, and tried to pretend that one wrong move wouldn't send them off the edge of the massive bridges and into the deep chasm below.

"Don't look down," Thorin warned him. 

"If you threw something down there, would it hurt?" Bilbo wondered. 

"Hurt what?"

"What?" Bilbo tried to clear his head.

He was more than feeling his drinks now, his vision vignetted in the bright lanterns around them, but he was still steadier - by inches - than Thorin.

"I am drunk," Thorin informed him, as if the information had escaped his companion's attention.

"Yes, you are," he didn't stop the snort of a laugh this time. "Yes, you are, my friend. And I am as well."

They reached the doors to Thorin’s quarters with more easy laughter than he knew Thorin to be capable of - laughter of the drunken variety, laughter that spoke of easy joy and the falling of the _kingly_ veil he wore. Bilbo wanted to cherish this moment, to ingrain it within his memories and hold it bright in his hands in the dark of the night - candid and open and warm like a flame. 

“I might need your help,” Thorin groaned, leaning against the door frame and helping Bilbo push the doors apart. “How are you still standing?”  
  
“I told you, Hobbits hold their liquor well,” Bilbo curled his fingers into the furs at Thorin’s shoulders. “Come on. We’ll-”  
  
Thorin leaned in and Bilbo hurried to catch him, bracing a hand against his chest, but the King leaned down the rest of the way and before Bilbo knew what was happening, their mouths had slotted together and he was breathing the same air as the King Under the Mountain.

As far as first kisses went, this one was tainted by alcohol, sloppy and lustful, but he fisted his hands in Thorin's hair and leaned into it without thought - chasing the last of the whisky into the King's mouth. The aftertaste of alcohol was almost cloyingly sweet, spices muted and warmed by the velvet of Thorin's tongue, and he found himself wanting more - seeking more - emboldened by drink and feverish desire.

For the first time since he had left the Shire he let himself believe that this was _real_. That everything that was happening, was happening _to him_ and not some imagined form of himself that wandered the edges of reality in fragments of dreams.

Unfortunately, this also meant that he was incredibly sensible, even when hammered. _Dream_ Bilbo would never push away Thorin Oakenshield and make a run for it. _Dream_ Bilbo was sexy and funny and most certainly would not apologize profusely to a Dwarven King as he backed out of the room.

Dream Bilbo he was not _. Real_ Bilbo felt fear and confusion and _lust_ too acutely.

 

* * *

 

 

Real Bilbo awoke to the sound of heavy footsteps in his room and muted whispers, confusion sinking into his thoughts. Hobbits could hold their liquor, but _to hell_ with the hangovers.

“Balin?” He recognized the tone of one voice and rolled onto his side.

 _Did I go to sleep in my clothes?_  
  
“Good morning, Bilbo,” his old friend greeted. “I take it you slept well?”  
  
“Ugh… I need a window in this mountain. What time is it?” He sat up, aware that his hair must have been a half flat mess.  
  
“Late morning,” Bilbo then became aware of another figure.  
  
“Kíli?” He grumbled, biting down a yawn. Thorin’s youngest nephew was balanced on the balls of his feet, face as eager as ever, and a sinking feeling took hold of his stomach. “What’s going on?”

“Well, seeing as Uncle is going to be busy with _kingly_ stuff today, I thought you might come with us to Dale?” Kíli asked. “My brother and I are going with a carriage to deliver a few things to King Bard.”  
  
“Did Thorin say that was alright?” He curbed another yawn behind his hand, rolling his neck.  
  
 _“I’ll take you there myself_.” He remembered Thorin saying that distinctly, remembered counting the snowflakes that collected on the King’s hood, remembered -

Tongues and heat and Thorin’s hands on his waist, all alcohol and teeth on his lips, digging his fingers into silken furs, and then - turning away without an explanation. 

 _\- Not_ that he could have given a proper one anyway.

“He’ll be busy today but we can ask!” Kíli said happily.  
  
“No… no, that’s alright, I’ll go…” he rolled his ring between his fingers habitually, searching the lines of the smooth stone floor for answers.

“Great! We’ll meet you outside in a little while!” Kíli bounded back out of the room, to tell his brother Bilbo was sure, but Balin lingered.  
  
“Are you sure you want to go? You don’t have to,” Balin told him with amusement on his voice.  
  
“I think seeing some sun would be good for me. Erebor does funny things to the mind.”  
  
 _Thorin does funny things to the mind._

He emerged much more clear headed after breakfast and a _shower -_ oh how he loved showers - to find the brothers waiting with several other Dwarves. He greeted each one in turn, smiling with amusement at how long winded Dwarves could be, and turned to follow the party out - but not before noticing Dís watching from down the hall. He waved, and earned one in return, but he still felt uneasy. 

Uneasy that somehow he had offended Thorin and _that_ was why he was going to Dale without him.

 

* * *

 

“You can let us off here!” Kíli said and Bilbo jolted awake, having dozed on the short ride - a better option than becoming incredibly cart sick, as he was wont to do.

“Where is this?” Bilbo asked groggily.  
  
“This house belongs to the King of Dale,” Fíli explained. “We’re stopping by briefly, then we’ll be off to the market.” He slid off the carriage and offered to help Bilbo down.  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” he said sheepishly and dropped to his feet. “It’s a beautiful house. Will the children be home?”  
  
“Probably not,” Fíli answered, shaking his head, and Bilbo watched the younger brother beeline for the door. Something was happening that he hadn’t figured out yet, looking back to Fíli for answers as Kíli knocked at the door with the usual Dwarven disregard for paint or dents.

Considering the circumstances and their location Bilbo wasn't entirely sure what he was to expect when the door opened - but it certainly couldn’t have been the beautiful Elf from the prisons of Mirkwood.

"Tauriel," the relief on the Prince’s voice flooded Bilbo's heart with warmth. "I'm sorry we were gone for so long." He looked at Bilbo. "I uh... You two haven't formally met, have you? Bilbo Baggins, this is Tauriel."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she touched her hand to her heart and Bilbo bowed to her.

" _Mae govannen_ ," he smiled.

"You speak Elvish?"

"Only a little and poorly at that," Bilbo said apologetically.

"Well, uh..." Kíli seemed to tread water for a moment, nervously rolling a strand of his hair between his fingers, and Tauriel chuckled.

Bilbo looked between them, then at Fíli, starting to piece it all together.

"Oh, Thorin isn't going to like this," he groaned.

"Now Bilbo, before you do anything, I-"

"Kíli," Tauriel seemed to ease him with a touch to his shoulder. "Master Baggins, would you care for some tea?"

"Of course. I didn't mean to be rude... I didn't even bring anything to greet you." 

"I am sure you were not made aware of the circumstances. Things are... delicate."

Delicate was not the word Bilbo would have chosen. He might have selected something along the lines of _dangerous_ or _foolhardy_ or maybe even _incredibly stupid_.

"May I ask why I'm here?" Bilbo finally inquired once he was seated at a table with his odd company.

"Kíli and Fíli seem confident that you can convince their uncle to see reason," Tauriel poured him a cup of tea.

"See reason to do... what exactly? Does no one remember what happened the last time I tried to secure Thorin's well being?"

"He wasn't himself. He won't try to throw you off the battlements this time," Fíli assured him.

"And you're quite certain of that? Because once again it seems like I'm between Thorin and Elves and I don't have a Gandalf here to stop him from stringing me up."

"We haven't even told you what we want, yet!" Kíli protested.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it can't be good... No offense, Lady Tauriel."

"It's only Tauriel, but none taken." She bore a very familiar smile, one Bilbo was certain he'd borne a few times when dealing with Thorin: a smile mixed with amusement and exasperation, tinged by the certainty that whatever was planned wouldn't work.

"Uncle _trusts_ you, Bilbo, you could convince him to let Tauriel come with us."

Bilbo let out a stunned laugh, incredulous that the Dwarven prince had asked such a thing of him, and leaned his cheek against his fist - smiling because there was nothing else to do when facing down a dragon, even a very small one.

"An Elf in Erebor?" He laughed again.

"Please, Bilbo..." Kíli leaned over the table slightly.

"I told him it wasn't possible," Fíli drummed his fingers against his cup. "That Uncle would sooner skin him alive."

Bilbo looked between them all, bewildered by their request.

"Thorin Oakenshield would have a coronary if an Elf ever set foot in his kingdom. I think he would collapse in on himself and writhe on the ground from the mere mention of it."

"Bilbo..." Kíli's heart seemed to shatter under the Hobbit's gaze.

"But, I..."

He weighed his options and looked at Tauriel, who offered a smile, and sighed.

"I am pinned between a dragon and a lake. If I face the dragon, I will be incinerated. If I choose the lake, I will drown in heartbreak and regret."

He cleared his throat and Kíli watched him expectantly.

"It is fortunate for you that I prefer dragons to lakes," Bilbo wrinkled his nose.

"YES!" Kíli leapt from his seat and bounded around the room to a round of laughter from his brother.

"N-Now, I can't promise anything, Kíli, your uncle does what he wants to do with little regard for anyone else," Bilbo warned. "He has an old hatred and a very good reason for that hatred." 

"But Tauriel isn't King Thranduil," Kíli said.

"I've gone in circles with him about this, Bilbo," Fíli interjected. 

"And she helped us at the battle!"

"Kíli, I will _try._ That is all I can do." Bilbo sighed and took a bracing drink of his tea. "It might take time... One conversation will not be enough."

"You can do it, Master Burglar! Thorin will listen to your counsel."

"Kíli, my boy, I think you overestimate my abilities."

Facing Thorin Oakenshield for his nephew's sake was far more daunting than walking, unprepared, into Smaug's fangs - and possibly far more dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank [malvinnia](http://malvinnia.tumblr.com/) for the fine tuning. and check me out on [tumblr](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/).


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